El Vino Collapso
by Piazzolla Pie
Summary: Isabela's hungover. Luckily, Merrill's not. - It is what it is, whatever that may be.


**Author's Note**: I wrote this a little earlier, waiting for breezie531 to finish eating her damn lunch. I've no idea what I was trying to achieve, but there you have it. If you like it, and especially if you hate it, comments and brutal, sandpapery criticism are more than welcome because all horrendous mistakes are my own. There could very well be some form of sequel coming up, but there's an even chance that I'll just go and eat some cake instead. Caaake.  
><strong>Disclaimer<strong>: BioWare's gorgeous characters belong to - you guessed it - BioWare!  
><strong>P.S.<strong>: If you recognise the title, please take a moment to hang your head in shame, and then let us never speak of it again.

* * *

><p>Isabela cracked open a bleary eye just in time to see the last of the guttering candle flames fade to black.<p>

"Shit," she muttered under her breath, blindly groping along the edge of her bedside table for the tinderbox she knew had to be around there somewhere. _Oh, bollocks._ The little container hit the splintered floorboards with a dull _thud_ as its contents spilled out somewhere behind the table. Isabela gave up.

Sprawled out naked in the dark, tobacco leaves embedded in her unruly hair, lips chapped and stained by cheap wine, Isabela took a few moments to contemplate her surroundings. _What the bloody hell am I doing here?_ she thought to herself, but immediately regretted the question. It was _supposed _to be a rhetorical one, and mental, at that, but it felt as if she'd screamed it until she was hoarse; the words slamming hard against the walls of her mind and echoing back into the throbbing space between.

Clearly, now wasn't the time for thinking.

Isabela'd not had the displeasure of experiencing a hangover this awful since, well, since she could remember, but that could very well have been the previous morning for all she knew – no strenuous thinking, agreed?

Hawke had the good sense to leave the pirate to her drinking, and its consequences; Varric often matched her, drink for drink; Aveline would take digs whenever she was handed a shovel, and this topic was in no way exempt from a good excavating; Fenris scowled at everything; Merrill, sweet girl, would always insist on 'having what Isabela's having' but rarely made it past the first shuddering gulp, and Anders had a hundred and one colourful remedies that, in Isabela's opinion, tasted worse than the bile she was fighting to swallow back. No, when you'd consumed enough wine to make tea-partying with the Arishok look like a happy alternative to being hungover, there was only one sure-fire cure.

More wine.

Bare feet hit the dusty planks with more force than she was expecting, as if she weren't actually the one in control of her body. With much creaking of bones and bedposts, Isabela eventually hauled herself upright, reluctantly ready to start the day. Or was it still night? Very early morning, perhaps? She had absolutely no clue as to what the time was, which was hardly surprising; disregarding her current state, her room at the Hanged Man still wasn't exactly abundant in windows.

But, having a generous amount of experience in bundling up her clothes and running for the hills, Isabela had managed to cover her unmentionables with a particularly creased tunic, slung her belt over her shoulder in record time, and was now tottering uncertainly towards the dim strip of light peeking underneath the door.

Isabela navigated the tavern's dingy corridors with surprising ease, taking note of the various snores emanating from each door as she passed, a watery shade of grey barely illuminating the grimy pane of glass ahead. _Almost dawn_, she wagered, but stopped dead in her tracks as she descended the last of the uneven stairs.

If sheer panic hadn't anchored her trembling legs to the spot, she may have collapsed back onto the steps as she took in the horrendous scene before her.

The bar was _closed_.

At any other establishment, this wouldn't be such a difficult obstacle to overcome – she was, after all, a valued patron, and an IOU for helping herself to an after-hours drink or two would be accepted with the confidence of being repaid. She could even just lift a few bottles, _if_ she were that kind of woman. But, of course, things were never that simple. The Hanged Man's bar only closed when they were beyond serving up the dregs at the bottom of the barrel, and not a moment before, not while there was still money to be made.

_Great. No booze, no money, _she tugged at the belt still draped over her shoulder and was pleasantly surprised to hear the jingle of coins coming from inside a pouch fastened to one of the buckles. Okay, so she had money, but what use was that when she had nothing to spend it on? Maybe she could... No, she had a vague recollection of Varric making a show of pulling out empty pockets and dramatically shaking his head when she'd attempted to procure another bottle from him last night. _Shit_.

She had to get out of there. If she couldn't have alcohol, she'd begrudgingly settle for some air. Yes, air would be nice right about now.

The heat of recent weeks had seeped into the land, the houses, the sparse, sickly trees, and so even this early in the morning the ground pulsed like bees beneath Isabela's feet as she stumbled outside, feeling sick to her stomach. Clammy hands gripped her thighs as she doubled over, gulping in deep, shaky breaths of much-needed oxygen.

In all likelihood, Isabela was starting to get too old for this, but whether she'd admit to it was an entirely different matter. Would she kick the habit before the bucket? Doubtful. The best one could hope for was that she'd at least find a better coping mechanism than vomiting in the middle of the street, and so far that was going just _swimmingly_. In a small puddle between her feet, to be precise.

The pirate spat in the general vicinity of the gutter and tentatively edged around the latest mess to grace the walkways of Lowtown. She put little thought into where she was edging to, but that didn't matter – like a true sailor, when all other paths were unclear, her feet faithfully drew her back towards the ocean.

Isabela's eyes were barely open as she swaggered toward the docks in sleety darkness. She'd made this trip more times than she felt comfortable admitting to, and she was definitely feeling discomfort now that she was actually tripping – her toes tangled in something as she took her next step; it was nothing, really, but still caught the pirate off guard, dropping her to the dirt on bended knee.

The Rivaini didn't believe in the Maker, but offered up a silent prayer nonetheless, promising a hundred good deeds in Andraste's name if she just made sure that nobody had been privy to that little debacle.

Knuckling herself up from the dust, Isabela glared over her shoulder at the offending object. She snatched up her belt from the ground and crouched down to examine the thin sliver of wire pulled taught across the pathway. _A flimsy trigger for a poorly-constructed trap?_ She cast a suspicious glance in all directions – come to think of it, the streets were unusually devoid of life, even at this hour. Was someone laying in wait for her? She turned her gaze back to the wire. No, not wire. Twine. She cocked her head to the side and pulled gently on the string, half expecting something sharp to fly out of nowhere. Feeling satisfied when this failed to happen, she tugged harder on the length of twine and almost jumped out of her skin when a loud scraping of wood suddenly broke the pre-dawn silence.

Isabela rose up, taking care not to trip twice – because that would border on farcical, would it not? – and followed the trail of twine towards the wooden clattering. As she turned the corner, she saw that the string extended a good fifteen feet, wrapped around a barrel no less than three times, and appeared to carry on down some steps into yet another alleyway. _What on earth? Who'd circle a barrel that many times before they came to realise there was only one other way in which to travel?_

_Merrill._

Isabela thought that the elf now knew her way around the city well enough to break this habit, but if it helped her get home in one piece, she wasn't going to argue. Besides, if Merrill were to get into trouble, those looking out for her simply had to follow the ball of twine. The problem with that, Isabela inwardly groaned, was that _anyone_ could follow the leads to Merrill's location. What was she even doing out at this time? She could have been anywhere.

_Left or right?_ The pirate mentally tossed a sovereign and chose right, picking up the pace as much as her splitting skull would allow as she began tracking the length of cord to its owner.

How long _is_ a piece of string? Isabela hadn't travelled terribly far, but she was beginning to wish she'd worn boots. _And underwear. _A stiff breeze blew in off the tide, indicating that, no matter what she did, the pirate always returned to the sea. Actually, it was rather refreshing. No, if she was going to be making reckless wishes, she'd just stick with the boots. She wasn't greedy, after all.

She still wasn't entirely sure how long the string was, but found herself feeling very grateful as, after turning just two more corners, her search finally came to a fruitful end at the docks – Merrill was alone and seemingly unharmed; a sight which caused a pang of relief to flutter its way through Isabela's chest.

Her small frame was huddled at the water's edge, large eyes narrowing as the early morning tide dared to venture up over the bottom step and lap playfully at her toes.

Isabela drew breath to call out Merrill's name, but swallowed down the syllables as the elf casually flicked her hand towards the water. Not the most unusual of acts, at least not until the tiny waves dipped in obedience and retreated further back into the ocean, leaving Merrill's feet be.

Sometimes Isabela forgot that Merrill was an all-powerful blood mage, and it was generally acknowledged that creeping up on all-powerful blood mages wasn't the smartest move one could make. But what else could she do? Loiter patiently at the top of the steps until she needed to vomit again? She just needed a moment to catch her breath, that was all.

She didn't mean to stare, she really didn't, but there was something different about Merrill's usually odd behaviour, something in her demeanour that she couldn't quite put her finger on. The elf, in her eyes, had always looked like she felt out of place in Kirkwall. She fell over her words attempting to say something just to please you, trying too hard to fit in, and was so jumpy that she'd sometimes trip over her own feet when scrambling to move out of your way. She looked so small and lost.

Understandably, the smuggler was a little surprised when she realised that Merrill looked... relaxed, and she was almost certain that the smaller figure was humming to herself. Isabela supposed that she wasn't in the habit of spying on the girl when she was by herself, so it made sense that she had no idea what Merrill was truly like; a crumpled ball of newspaper waiting patiently for the room to empty before quietly stretching back out.

"You look terrible," Merrill noted dryly without even glancing up from her reflection in the water, which startled Isabela so much that she almost lost her balance.

"Thank you?" Isabela raised an eyebrow, but her words were hushed, not entirely certain if Merrill was addressing her or merely conversing with her watery twin.

"You're quite welcome," Isabela heard rather than saw her smile. So, she _was_ talking to the pirate. Had she known she was there the entire time?

"Merrill, I, umm..." Isabela began, feeling rather foolish for being caught out. "I wasn't..."

"Watching me?" the elf finished, eyes still on the ocean. "Of course you weren't," she said kindly, almost as if she were the one trying to do the convincing.

"Right..." she drew the word out in order to give herself a moment to think. Maybe she'd never understand Merrill. Did anyone? "I wasn't intentionally spying, I just didn't want to disturb whatever it is you're... doing?" Isabela squinted in the low light as she thought she witnessed the elven reflection move independently, but there was no way to be sure as it rippled away in an instant; Merrill jerked around so fast that she was in considerable danger of snapping her neck, or so Isabela imagined.

"Aneth ara!" Merrill squeaked in surprise as if she'd only just noticed the figure lurking behind her in the shadows. "Isabela!"

"Relax, kitten, it's just me," she said in as soothing of a voice as she could manage, her tongue feeling dry and foreign in her mouth.

"Yes, of course it is," Merrill replied in a small voice as she tucked her chin into her chest, feeling idiotic for behaving so... so much like herself.

"Are you okay?" Isabela questioned, taking a few cautious steps towards the elf.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine. Just fine," Merrill blurted without having to think about it. She was always fine, wasn't she?

Isabela took another step closer and the mage hurriedly clambered to her feet, looking like she'd forgotten more than her manners.

"What's wrong?" Merrill was panic-stricken. "What's happened? Is Hawke okay? Do you need me?" she reached for her staff, ready to head out towards certain danger without a moment's hesitation.

Isabela felt her heart clench tight before plummeting down to the pit of her stomach. Merrill really was at Hawke's beck and call, and not just Hawke's, but all of theirs. Was this really the only interaction they had with her? Only when they wanted something they knew she'd be only too happy to give? She felt guilt rise up inside her for not making more of an effort. Isabela never felt guilty.

"I was just out for a stroll," she shrugged, "thought you might like a little company, that's all," Isabela told her, choosing to omit the part about her near heart attack when she thought the elf was in danger. Merrill would likely feel awful for burdening Isabela's mind like that, and the smaller woman looked downtrodden enough as it was. "Sit," she told her mildly, gesturing for the girl to resume her seat on the steps.

"I... I would like that," Merrill admitted, avoiding her companion's eyes like it was a crime to be lonely, but did as she was told and settled back down on the stone.

"Excellent," Isabela breathed as she lowered her aching body to rest next to Merrill's

"And Hawke is..." she couldn't let the thought go.

"Fine," Isabela interjected, "don't worry yourself." Merrill let out a small sigh of relief. "Not that I've seen hide nor hair of the bastard since the big move up to Hightown," she made a face. "But, yes, the Champion's fine, kitten."

"I thought Hawke was actually away, anyway," Merrill contributed, and Isabela had to blink several times until the words made any kind of sense.

"That's what I was informed of, too," she agreed as soon as her mind caught up with Merrill's fast-paced addition to the conversation. "Bodahn practically booted me off the front step. I don't think he's all too fond of me, do you?" she didn't expect an answer, but Merrill hesitantly opened and closed her mouth like a gasping fish, trying to decide what to say.

"Umm, well, Bodahn did say that, uh," Merrill began uncertainly, "he would be... 'right obleejed' if 'madarm' would refrain from, uhh..." she spoke slowly as her pointed features wrinkled in concentration. "Refrain from 'ransacking his boodwah!' That's it!" the elf exclaimed brightly, looking very pleased with herself for recalling the message in its entirety.

"I did no such thing," Isabela scoffed indignantly, but decided to make a few minor alterations to her tale as she watched Merrill's narrow shoulders slump. The poor girl probably thought she'd relayed the message wrong after all. "I may have _looked around_ a little," the pirate admitted cautiously, "curiosity, that sort of thing. But you can tell him that you _personally_ made sure it shan't happen again," she winked.

"I did?" Merrill frowned. "Oh, I did! Yes," she nodded forcefully.

Isabela couldn't help but grin, despite the pounding in her skull that shook her bones all the way down to the base of her spine.

Everyone was just waiting for the other shoe to drop where Merrill was concerned, and they both knew it. Maybe that was why Merrill was so eager to please. But shouldn't they be the ones trying to please her instead of avoiding her like the blight? The woman beside her held more power than anyone she knew, but because she was a blood mage people were terrified, living in fear of that moment when the demon she'd bargained with came to collect his dues.

Merrill was quirky, there was no denying that, but she was by no means an idiot. Isabela had heard people talking about blood magic, shaking their head at the elf, saying she was too naïve and couldn't possibly understand the dangers of what she was doing. The pirate didn't pretend to be educated on the subject, but she was certain that Merrill's nonchalant attitude wasn't due to naïveté, but rather a modest confidence in her own abilities. Perhaps they were two sides of the same fence, and only time would tell, but Isabela believed in her nonetheless. There was a certain childlike innocence about Merrill, a natural purity fused with such power and wisdom, and being in her presence was... humbling.

"Where are your shoes?" Merrill enquired as Isabela dipped her feet into the water, wincing a little as the salt bit into the small lacerations she'd acquired on her journey.

"Where are yours?" the former sea captain countered.

"I didn't think I'd need them – you normally wear enough boots for the both of us," Merrill quipped, feeling bold enough to poke a little fun at the thigh-high boots Isabela often adorned.

"Touché," she smirked.

For no particular reason, Isabela slung her arm around Merrill's skinny shoulders. She had no idea what possessed her to do so, and the elf looked like she was expecting the smuggler to tighten her grip and strangle the life out of her, but, after a few moments of silent awkwardness, the mage finally relaxed against her side, and Isabela was glad she'd done it.

"You miss it," Merrill observed as Isabela stared out at the gloomy ocean.

"I do," the pirate agreed, knowing exactly what Merrill meant. She didn't really wish to discuss it, and was thankful when the elf made no move to press the issue further.

"Do you miss it? Your home, I mean," Isabela asked softly, still looking out at the gentle waves.

"I didn't really have a home," Merrill murmured. "We were always moving, the clan, but I suppose that they were my home. My family." She took a shallow breath. "I'm not welcome there anymore, and I know that, but I'd still do anything for them. All of this _is_ for them, for my people." The young elf hung her head. "Yes, I miss it."

Isabela gave Merrill's shoulder a reassuring squeeze. She didn't know what else to do – the Rivaini'd never had much of a family to be shunned by. True, her mother had sold her off for a dowry of five magic beans – or so the story goes – but she'd never experienced anything remotely close to the loneliness Merrill must still be feeling.

"I'm not stupid, you know," Merrill's voice wasn't as even as she'd hoped. Isabela's body weight shifted as she leaned in to give the elf a questioning look. "I know what people think of me. I know what they think will happen," she said grimly.

"I trust you."

The words were out of Isabela's mouth before she had a chance to stop them, and it was impossible to tell which woman was more shocked at the utterance.

Merrill gradually lifted her gaze to meet Isabela's, and the look on her face was heartbreaking. It was clear that she didn't believe Isabela's words, but neither did she regard them as empty. It was as if the sentiment had meant just as much as the trust itself; she was happy that someone cared enough to make the effort to lie to her.

Isabela had promised herself that she wouldn't think too hard. Nothing good ever came from overcomplicating matters, but what if she tried to simplify things? She'd never admit it aloud, but the people she surrounded herself with – Hawke, Varric, even Aveline – had become her clan, and the tiny figure at her side was the closest thing to family she'd ever had.

"I trust you, Merrill," she said again, more deliberately.

Merrill let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding and settled back against Isabela, smiling. Three little words had never meant so much to anyone.

Out on the horizon, gulls screamed as the sun slowly started to rise and shine.

"Have you even slept yet?" Isabela nudged her friend.

"I..." Merrill had to think about it for a moment. "No," she blushed as Isabela gently reclaimed her arm and attempted to rise to her feet, rolling her stiff joints as she steadied herself on the elf's shoulder. Merrill didn't mind the contact.

"Come on, kitten, let's get you home," Isabela smiled warmly, extending her hand.

"Ma serannas," she whispered, linking painted fingers with the pirate's, but her breath caught in her throat as Isabela yanked hard at her wrist.

"Merrill, what happened to you?" Isabela demanded as she examined the mage's delicate hand in the weak sunlight; several red, angry welts and deep, jagged claw marks marred her pale skin.

"Ohh! I forgot to tell you!" Merrill practically leapt up, beaming as she grasped the taller woman's hand. "Well, I didn't forget, not really, I just wasn't supposed to tell you because it was a surprise, but now I can and I haven't forgotten it, so I'll tell you!" she babbled cheerfully.

"Ah..." Isabela forced herself to smile, if only to disguise the worry on her face. She wasn't entirely sure she wanted to know what taloned surprise Merrill had in store for her, but found herself asking regardless. "Thank you, Merrill. Uhh, what is it?" the elf was already dragging her back up the steps towards the Alienage.

"I bought you a parrot!"

"...Oh."


End file.
